


The Aftermath

by lightworms07



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Closure, M/M, More angst, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, aight part two is up which concludes the tags with:, and what happened after, involving their time in heaven together before Crowley Fell, pure unfiltered angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-30 15:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightworms07/pseuds/lightworms07
Summary: To each other they are “angel” and “my dear Crowley.” They are inseparable. They are ineffable and eternal.Inevitably, they are fools about their love.///Or- angels are forbidden to love, and when Heaven intervenes, one Falls and the other is forced to forget.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I pulled what is (I think?) a common angsty trope in this fandom   
> Also I think this is already pretty sad but while writing it I was listening to “Hurts Like Hell” by Fleurie and, quite frankly, that really helped me channel even more angst   
> So if you want to listen to that while you read go for it   
> Hope you enjoy :)

“I hear the Almighty is working to create something called Earth.” 

“Is She now?” Crowley asks, slouching against the back of the bench. The thing is made of unforgiving stone, much less comfortable than the luscious couches and chaises inside the heavenly palace. But this is their bench, Aziraphale and Crowley’s, because few other angels bother retreating to this particular courtyard and so they can be alone together. 

“Yes, She is,” Aziraphale reiterates, beaming. “I overheard Uriel and Michael discussing it a decade or so ago. I wonder if it is all part of the Great Plan?” 

“Probably,” Crowley says, still relaxed, even though Aziraphale is practically buzzing with excitement next to him. “Humans and all, what’s the big deal anyway? Aren’t angels and demons suitable enough?” 

“Don’t question the Almighty!” Aziraphale patronizes. Their wings brush together as he turns to scold Crowley. “Her plans will be wonderful, I’m sure- and benevolent, and glorious! Oh, are you not excited, my dear Crowley?”

“Well I reckon it’ll work, surely, but certainly not in a way that’s beneficial to all of us celestial entities.” 

Aziraphale’s smile fades. He thinks, not for the first time, that Crowley always seems half a step ahead of him and the rest of the angels. As if the angel can see some invisible area between heaven and hell that is morally gray. The thought never fails to make Aziraphale slightly uncomfortable. He wonders if Crowley thinks too much. 

But Aziraphale hasn’t enough time to consider it in depth, because he can hear the bugle sounding to summon all the angels together. He opens his mouth to say something to Crowley anyway, even though he has yet to decide exactly what he’ll say. Too late, however- Crowley brushes his palm against the back of Aziraphale’s hand, indiscernible to the angels passing by, and flashes that brilliant smile at him before standing to join the crowd.

Aziraphale knows he will have another opportunity to ask, for they will spend their eternity in heaven together, so he has no worries about it. 

Their love is eternal. The only thing Aziraphale is more sure of is that, when Crowley’s brown eyes are illuminated gold in certain light, they are more brilliant than the golden light of heaven itself. 

(Aziraphale and Crowley have been in love long enough to understand the other angels would not condone it. Yet they are not fools about it- they have kissed only in the occasional shadowy corners of empty rooms with no other angels in sight. They rarely exchange the words “I love you.” But such trivial things matter little to the both of them. Crowley could just as well be screaming those three words every time he makes eye contact with Aziraphale. He knows Crowley hears them when Aziraphale places one of his molted feathers in the angel’s grasp, and then later finds it braided into the underside of his long, red hair.)

To each other they are “angel” and “my dear Crowley.” They are inseparable. They are ineffable and eternal. 

///

Inevitably, they are fools about their love. 

Aziraphale has clung to the naive hope that God would be merciful and turn Her knowing eyes away from their love, which is forbidden, the one thing he will never cease to question about his heavenly brethren. 

They had only three and a half decades together before Gabriel intervened. 

Aziraphale and Crowley are on their bench together when the Archangel approaches. Aziraphale bows at the waist. Crowley inclines his head, and Aziraphale has just opened his mouth to tell Crowley off for being disrespectful when Gabriel speaks for him. 

“Keep it shut,” Gabriel snaps, aggressively reaching for Crowley’s shoulder. Then Aziraphale is beginning to protest for an entirely different reason. Too late, though, too late again, because Crowley is being dragged across the courtyard and when the summoning bugle sounds Aziraphale is not excited as normal. The sound is eerie and foreboding instead. Perhaps it is because Crowley is getting dragged away for some unknown reason. 

(And if Aziraphale does know the reason he is keeping that knowledge locked away beneath the deep, unsettling fear that is piercing his heart.)

Though so far away, Aziraphale can glimpse his white feather still in Crowley’s hair, which is askew from the force of Gabriel’s grip. 

It looks as if the feather is drifting away, like it is lost amongst the wind in a falling sky. 

At the thought of such a bad omen Aziraphale hurries after them both, dread creeping up on him like a hellish shadow. 

When he reaches the amphitheater all the assembled angels are frighteningly silent. Aziraphale’s footsteps echo dangerously. No one pays him any heed. No, their eyes are all trained to the two figures standing on the raised platform in the center.

“Angel Crowley.” Archangel Michael’s voice is detached and cold, colder than Aziraphale has ever realized in his awe of her. “You have been fraternizing with the wrong sort of beings. You have lost your rights as an angel, and will suffer the consequences for your sins. You will sever all ties with holy beings.” She waves her hand, which becomes incandescent with golden fire. “Beelzebub is expecting a new recruit.” 

Aziraphale would never again be more certain about anything except this: that Crowley had not chosen poor company, not of the demonic type. No, he had just chosen to act wrongly toward a single celestial being, ad those crimes were treated one in the same. 

And now he was going to Fall, because of Aziraphale. Because of love. Because of the one truly good thing in their heavenly world.

Through whatever cruel sleight of hand, though he is in the back of the silent crowd, Aziraphale has a perfect view of Crowley’s face. 

His brown eyes are dull. Still breathtakingly beautiful, yes, but they are subdued by misery that no angel (or demon, really, though that may be Crowley’s influence speaking) should ever feel. 

But his Crowley does not break. Even as Michael’s fire pierces the flesh directly above his heart, branding him, expelling his angelic essence with one damning gesture. 

His Crowley remains stoic and unfeeling through the ordeal, even as Aziraphale bites his knuckles to muffle his groan of sympathetic pain. 

When Crowley somehow finds Aziraphale in the crowd, then- and only then- do the burning angel’s eyes screw up against the pain and the falling tears he is powerless to halt.

There is an explosion as his Crowley is expelled from heaven. Aziraphale does not hear it. 

They did not get to say goodbye. Crowley is Falling.

Everything is frighteningly quiet. Aziraphale’s very existence is drowned out by the thought consuming him on an endless loop:

Why was Aziraphale not banished instead?

(Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley will ever get to witness the conversation that happened beforehand. Ultimately, too many Archangels learned of their love and deemed it a temptation of human flesh, something that had yet to even be created by the Almighty Herself. They decided love was a dangerous distraction when they realized that Aziraphale and Crowley were no longer ruthless warriors of Heaven. 

“Banish Crowley,” Gabriel decided. “Aziraphale is more compliant, more of a loyal, bumbling fool. Frankly, I have been looking for an opportunity to cast Crowley out. He is unconventional. Let the demons have him, burn him with hellfire, I couldn’t care less. Just get them apart.”)

///

God has created the earth. And the light, and the darkness, and the sky. Next comes the land and all the creatures of the earth. Soon the human race will be created, something that used to excite Aziraphale. 

That is impossible now. He is colorless, and one-dimensional, and numb. Because their bench is now just his bench. His missing feather has not grown back. Aziraphale wonders if it is because of grief, or if he has just ceased to function without the other half of his heart. 

///

Aziraphale has taken to calling that time “The Before.” Before love was formally deemed a sin. Before Crowley Fell. Before heaven was lonely and cold. Before he forgot laughter and joy.

Others address him as “angel.” But it is barked as an order, or used with snide tones, because Aziraphale is now known as the one who loved (loves) a demon. He is a disgrace. He does not _care_ about how they see him.

Every time they call him “angel” Aziraphale feels a tug on his heart, for the voices speaking it are never the one he yearns to hear. Surely the organ is metaphysical, for if it is not Aziraphale would have been long dead from his heart ripping clean in two. 

/// 

Sometimes Aziraphale wonders. He wonders if he could sneak through the heavenly gates and fly down, down, but without wings spread to catch himself. Aziraphale wonders if he could fall instead, if the greedy hands of hell would accept him. If they would accept the temptations of his flesh and mind and _heart_ , so that he could see his Crowley again. 

Curiosity and unconditional love best him. Aziraphale considers ripping the feathers from his wings instead, but that is too time-consuming and noticeable. 

He is so near the gates. Jumping will be easy. Falling brings him no fear- Hell does, certainly, but with Crowley by Aziraphale’s side nothing else could possibly make him afraid.

A hand stops him- it grasps the place where wing melds with flesh, gripping it tightly enough for Aziraphale to hiss in pain. 

Gabriel’s expression is unforgiving. The Archangel is furious, of that Aziraphale is certain. He asks himself _If Gabriel is allowed to feel hate, why was I destroyed for daring to love?_

Aziraphale cowers, and then there is darkness, darkness of the likes he never expected to experience in Heaven. 

When Aziraphale comes to something is wrong. The Archangels are standing above him, regal and ethereal, looking satisfied. “Have I- have I done something?” he dares to ask. Gabriel laughs jovially, and the joyous sound is shocking. He does not expect that from Heaven, but Aziraphale has no idea why. 

“Attend to your duties, Aziraphale,” Michael orders, sounding bored. Aziraphale smiles meekly and nods, standing with slightly wobbly legs. He does not remember falling to the ground. All he knows is the barest understanding of Heaven and his angelic existence. 

Angels do not sleep. But later Aziraphale finds himself dreaming of fiery red hair and warm golden-brown eyes, belonging to a face he cannot put a name to. 

Something is wrong. Aziraphale is missing something important- but he cannot understand what, so he promptly casts the thoughts aside and moves on. 

///

Crowley is surely dying, or dreaming, or doing something else that neither demons nor angels do. 

Demons are approaching from the distance, a writhing mass of blood and gore and physical anomalies that would make him cringe if he wasn’t numb with shock and grief. 

They did not get to say goodbye. He left his angel alone. 

Crowley cannot help it. He throws his head back toward Heaven. “Was this part of your Great Plan, God? Aziraphale trusted it blindly, trusted _you_ , and now here we are! Am I supposed to be some grand part of this? What did we do to deserve this?” There was still devastating quiet and emptiness. “ANSWER ME!” he roars. She does not answer.

(Later he will discover that he is, indeed, a rather large part of this Great Plan. Crowley is to become the paradigm of sin, the original temptation, the pawn that will set the human race into motion.) 

The demons are still approaching, a slow-moving army of rotting flesh. Crowley is gagging as he spreads his wings and takes off from the swampy ground. 

(The wings are still white. But for how long?)

Crowley reaches back to touch his hair. Aziraphale’s feather has disintegrated, likely from Michael’s glorious fire. If the Fall shattered his heart then this additional loss is splintering those pieces and grinding them into a fine powder. 

Crowley tries to fly back to Heaven, driven by foolish hope and desperate love. And he makes the mistake of believing he can go back when he sees the golden gates. 

The heavenly light blisters his hands and sear the tips of his feathers until they’re grey with ash and smoke, making him falter. 

Crowley tries again. Yet this time the pearly gates glow brighter and his eyes are burned by the holy light, so blinding he falls all the way back to Hell once again.

Crowley does not know if an angel has ever Fallen twice. He thinks not, as most demons are bitter and despise hell, or embrace hell and all its sins. He finds himself in some bizarre middle ground. Yes, he hates Heaven, but there is nothing for him in Hell yet. 

He loses his sight for seven years. Without eyes Crowley cannot find his way back to Heaven, back to Aziraphale. 

When he finally regains his vision Crowley’s eyes are not the same golden-brown Aziraphale always praised. No, these are yellow and snake-like and demonic. Crowley finds a demon slightly less cruel than the others, and they report that their demonic mark manifested the second they reached Hell. 

Crowley has to wonder if everything about is case is different, can’t help but speculate if that extra alienation is an additional punishment for loving an angel. 

///

God is almost prepared to set Her plans for the human race into motion. The armies of Hell are readying themselves. Crowley does not care. He marks nothing but the passing time and his own flesh. 

Hell, Crowley has learned, is well-stocked with needles and other weapons of the sort. Early on he took one and found some ink, which he used to carve himself a feather tattoo below the brand of heavenly fire, granted before he Fell.

Aziraphale’s feather burned long ago. But Crowley can keep this one until he gets discorporated, which he refuses to let happen before he can see his angel again. 

///

“The Almighty has demanded an angel to guard the East Gate of Eden,” Gabriel says to the other Archangels. “Make it Aziraphale. Give him something inane to make him feel important, something to further solidify his loyalty. The memory charm might wear off eventually, and The Almighty knows I want to delay that for as many millennia as possible.” 

///

Crowley is convinced his snake eyes are deceiving him. 

Eve and Adam had been tempted, he learned to transform into a giant snake, he fulfilled his first role of many as part of the Great Plan. Not a single one of those things matter, not when Crowley looks toward the East Gate of Eden and sees a figure with shockingly familiar hair- those same curly white tufts sticking haphazard in all directions. 

Crowley cannot breathe. He does not know if snakes even can breathe, doesn’t have his wits well enough collected to ask himself if he, as a snake, breathes. His mind is short-circuiting and his heart is crumbling again, but for an entirely different reason. 

Aziraphale is like a magnet. Crowley physically cannot stop himself from slithering over to where his angel stands, more stunning and glorious than he remembered after so long, and shapeshifting into his human vessel. 

They make small talk, and it’s better than anything Crowley ever dreamed of having, but he is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Aziraphale barely looks at him. He silently prompts Crowley for his _name_. 

“Crawley,” he offers, heart pounding erratically. Surely Aziraphale couldn’t resist the temptation of asking why he changed his name after Falling. 

But his angel goes along with it, and Crowley is stunned, just barely masking his horror. Aziraphale was never one to pull a prank, he was too practical and endearingly kind for that. 

Perhaps Aziraphale is feigning ignorance so they can avoid getting in trouble with their respective sides for being together again. Crowley clings to that hope with the desperation of a drowning man grasping a lifeboat. 

When the rain comes Aziraphale lifts his wing to let Crowley stand under it. Still selfless, then, Crowley thinks with an uncontainable smile. The gesture also buries him with grief, however, because it is achingly similar to when they used to brush their wings together on that stone bench in the courtyard of Heaven. 

They will be properly reunited again, Crowley is sure of it. He just has to wait for the right time. 

///

Aziraphale greets him as Crawley. His angel barely glances at him, even when Crowley informs him that he changed his name. 

He is desperate now. Aziraphale cannot truly be this cruel, pretending he doesn’t know Crowley exists. The suspicion has been creeping up on him that Aziraphale is not playing games, that for some strange reason he does not want to remember Crowley. Or cannot. Crowley is terrified and his human vessel can barely breathe.

So he changes his name back, silently begging with Satan and the Almighty and anyone else that might be willing to listen that it would spark Aziraphale’s memory. That he would remember _something_ of him and their time together, dammit, anything. 

Aziraphale is still indifferent. Crowley feels more pain than when he first Fell and they lost each other. 

He can’t look at Aziraphale. Can’t bear to see the lack of recognition on his face, in those ethereal eyes, the final key that locks away his stupid-foolish-naive hope that perhaps Aziraphale was just… waiting for the right time. 

Aziraphale does not remember him. Crowley is left alone, without his angel and without his hope.

///

Over the years Aziraphale continues to call him Crawley. And he corrects himself immediately every time, yes, but that means he hasn’t given Crowley even a fraction of the thought Crowley pours into Aziraphale. 

He’s constantly saving his angel, showing up in random corners across the world wherever Aziraphale happens to be, and helping him in every possible way. 

Crowley is a hopeless fool drowning in unrequited love. He does not care. He will follow Aziraphale to the end of the Earth, to the end of Heaven and Hell and everything in the universe that exists. 

He knows Aziraphale does not love Crowley, not the way he used to in Heaven, not anymore. Crowley also knows that is not his angel’s fault. And when Aziraphale does accept a ride home from the bombed church with his books safely in hand, Crowley lets himself hope again. 

///

Crowley allowed several Nazis and a church to be bombed- Aziraphale should be concerned about the latter, with it being consecrated and all, but he’s preoccupied with other things.

Namely, the books Crowley saved for him. Aziraphale’s breath catches as he stands there, frozen as Crowley leaves the church. His demon is… kind, Aziraphale knows that, not quite of the same ilk as other demons. 

Crowley cares. Suddenly Aziraphale realizes he, too, might care, but in another way, on a whole different level. 

He shoves that thought aside, even as a small smile comes over his face. He will consider that another time, when he feels sad enough to contemplate how angels and demons would not be allowed to… love one another.

Crowley offers him a lift home. Well, Aziraphale would be a fool not to accept. 

///

Aziraphale has opened a bookshop. He has a fine collection going, one Crowley can imagine expanding even more over the decades to come. 

His angel also has wine in his back room. Several bottles of the finest Huet Vouvray, circa 1931, which they drink too eagerly. 

Aziraphale seems slightly flustered. Crowley’s heartbeat is elevated, as it always is around his angel. He is leaning back in his desk chair, while Crowley is slightly behind him, sprawled drunkenly across a white and beige tartan armchair. 

(It’s a rather ugly piece of furniture. In an endearing way, though, as it matches Aziraphale’s bowtie.)

Apparently they’ve drunk enough wine for Aziraphale to lower his polite inhibitions. Because he chooses to pose a rather dangerous question right as Crowley downs a large gulp of wine. 

“Why do you think we never met in Heaven before you Fell, Crowley?” 

He almost spits out his wine. As it is, he swallows the bitter drink with a grimace and takes another sip. Crowley is drunk, yes, but not nearly drunk enough for this conversation. He will never be drunk enough for Aziraphale asking questions like _that_. 

“I- well, I-” Crowley stammers, grasping for words that don’t come to mind. “I was a low-level angel, I’d say. You must have been… well, very important, surely, if they chose you as Guardian of the East Gate. Maybe we had no reason to cross paths.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale muses. “If we’re being honest with each other, I don’t remember much about my time in Heaven before Eden.” He shrugs and leans further back in the chair. Crowley miracles it on all four legs so Aziraphale doesn’t fall. 

“Funny thing, time,” his angel laughs. “Even an angel’s memory can play tricks on him, I suppose.” 

Crowley’s shoulder slump. He suppresses his urge to tell Aziraphale everything he was sure the Archangels did. But he doesn’t, because that truth would either break Aziraphale or place him under the hostile assumption that Crowley was lying, manipulating his loyalty to Heaven for some sick reason.

“And you, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale continues. He twists in his chair to look up at Crowley with big, bright blue eyes. “What do you recall of your time before Falling?” 

“Bits and pieces, angel. Just bits and pieces, nothing coherent, really.” There is something building up in Crowley’s throat and it makes the lie more fragile than the porcelain teacup Aziraphale is, for some reason, sipping his wine from. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, sitting upright in his chair. “I remember a piece as well. There were these beautiful brown eyes. They lit up golden in the light.” 

“Is that so?” Crowley asks. He refills his wineglass to distract himself from the maelstrom of emotion tugging at his heart and whipping his insides around. 

“Oh, yes, they were like the light of heaven itself,” Aziraphale beams. “How I loved those eyes. They sound absolutely beautiful, don’t they, dear Crowley?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley manages. He has a rather aggressive urge to burst into tears. 

“Heaven was very lonely, sometimes,” Aziraphale continues. “That I remember as well. But those eyes- oh, they were my favorite part of Heaven. Strange that I don’t remember whose they were.” He laughs. “Perhaps because I am very, very drunk.”

Crowley can no longer stand sitting there. He jumps to his feet abruptly, startling Aziraphale.

“Crowley?” he asks. “Where are you going?”

“I have things to do,” Crowley snaps. He feels guilty when Aziraphale looks affronted. 

“Places to go, a bit of a temptation,” he continues. “Good wine, angel, but I really must go.” He could make both of them sober in an instant. But, selfishly, he doesn’t want Aziraphale to remember this conversation. He doesn’t want his angel to go through the pain of betrayal, he doesn’t want Aziraphale to have to contemplate what the Archangels undoubtedly did to his memories. He does not want Aziraphale to try and remember their time together, before Earth was created, because Crowley has long since learned that dwelling on the past only brings pain and a million heartbreaks. 

(Maybe a part of Crowley is afraid that, if Aziraphale contemplates those things too much, he might remember that he wasn’t actually that devastated when Crowley Fell. Crowley believes he was, but that might be more stupid, human hope and desperate belief. So he shoves his fears down, down into a dark place, and storms out of the bookshop without another word to his Aziraphale.)

///

The next time they meet is two decades later. Aziraphale looks crestfallen and deeply sad, about something Crowley does not dare question. 

If Aziraphale ever does remember their love in Heaven some day- well, Crowley will wait. He will inevitably continue moving too fast for Aziraphale, but one day his angel might just catch up. For now he is content to reminisce of Heaven and let regret fill his heart, but only when there is something to distract him from drowning in bitterness and choking on regret.

///

Crowley does not miss heaven. In fact, he loves hell in comparison to the wretched, burning hatred he feels for heaven. Because the glorious angels taught him something when he was banished to Fall. 

Falling was not painful. It caused him no bodily harm to land crumpled at the doors of hell. Crowley did not bleed when he molted white feathers and regrew black ones instead. 

No, he learned that day that demons might enjoy torturing the flesh, but angels are the master manipulators of the soul. They taught him that there is discord in the immaculate presentation of heaven, evil in the ruthless detachment of angels, pain in their ethereal existence. 

Crowley learned against his will that day that angels hate love. And if love makes him a sinner, then he is damn glad to embrace the ghastly bureaucracy of hell with open arms. 

Because Crowley loved Aziraphale in heaven, and Aziraphale loved Crowley. And though Crowley will forever damn Gabriel’s name, at least Aziraphale was given blessed ignorance instead of hell and spending eternity remembering your fierce love for another soul, while that very soul does not.


	2. Plants, Confessions and Perceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closure comes in the form of a long overdue conversation- and, of course, Crowley's plants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first part of this second chapter is weirdly lighthearted and it gave me whiplash when I read through both chapters  
> Anyway I know this said complete before but now this is the actual end because we all love closure  
> Don't worry though, after the first bit we descend into more angst once again  
> Enjoy!

Doomsday has been averted. The a-not-alypse has been fulfilled, or, as Crowley personally describes it, Armageddon has been turned Armagedd-off. 

He’s had to come up with multiple wordplays to describe that day, as each time he uses one Aziraphale looks more scandalized. “That day was not… lighthearted, or whimsical! Crowley, it is _not_ something to make jokes of. We were almost destroyed by Sat- by your boss himself!” Aziraphale had protested. Crowley paid him no heed and continued. 

With “Armagedd-off” Crowley swears on his Bentley’s condition that Aziraphale almost laughed. His angel had covered it up with an unconvincing, timid little scoff, which absolutely did not deceive him, so that is the name Crowley will continue to use. 

No, he is not a lovesick fool, thank you.

Heaven and Hell are off their backs, at least for a good few decades, and for the first time in millennia Crowley feels relatively at peace with his situation. 

Except for a few nuances in his daily routine that are enough to throw him ever so slightly off course. Starting with: the plants. 

Before the a-stop-alypse each and every plant housed in his apartment was immaculate. Crowley prides himself on being the strictest botanical caretaker to exist, thank you, because the plants live in fear of his scolding and grow rather impressively, all by intimidation alone. 

(Crowley is a terrible demon in the regard that he has spent little time over the millennia causing great harm to human beings and fellow demonic entities. So he channels his demonic nature into his indoor garden. Which is rather pitiful- or, at least, it would be in the eyes of several of Crowley’s esteemed coworkers and bosses. And, seeing as Crowley does not care in the least about other demons anymore, such thoughts will always fail to bother him.)

Which brings him back to his current dilemma: while going through one of his daily lectures to the garden, Crowley finds a large dead spot creeping up from the tip of a leaf on one of his favorite plants. 

(If prompted, Crowley will swear on his hatred for heaven that he does not show favoritism to any plant. This, of course, is to prevent deeply wounding the other plants in a way they could never come back from.)

This, however- absolutely unacceptable! One of his plants has the nerve to start dying? Absolutely not. 

Crowley is fuming about it to Aziraphale over the phone. His angel does not seem upset in the slightest. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale placates. “Let me take it in for a day.”

“And there’s this- a giant brown spot on the leaf!” Then he registers what Aziraphale offered. “Oh. You’ll take it?” 

“Well of course!” Aziraphale says. Crowley can hear the smile in his voice. “This plant could use a bit of holy influence, I suppose. And I have a perfect home for it! Yes, the front windowsill should do the trick.”

“And you’ll make sure it doesn’t die.” 

“Dear Crowley, I represent heaven. It is against my nature to kill anything,” Aziraphale informs him primly. 

Crowley snorts. “Tell that to the Antichrist.” He is, of course, referencing that time when Aziraphale suggested killing the boy before he could cause Armageddon. 

He knows Aziraphale is glaring at his phone. Crowley puts his on the table, sets it to speaker phone, and glares back. 

They maintain this silent (and rather useless) glaring contest for several moments. Then Aziraphale sighs over the line. “Send it over, dear.”

Crowley snaps his fingers, making the diseased plant vanish. If Crowley mentally aimed its transport to the center of Aziraphale’s desk- well, no one has to know it was intentional. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonishes. Strangely, his voice does not sound particularly upset. “You upended dirt on my first-edition copy of _The Canterbury Tales_!” 

They are both perfectly aware that Aziraphale can miracle the spill away, so Crowley settles on a half-assed apology and hangs up. 

/// 

The second thing that throws Crowley off is Aziraphale’s treatment of this plant. 

Normally Crowley drives up to the front in the Bentley when he’s meeting Aziraphale at his store. Lately, however, he’s chosen to quietly sneak through the back entrance. He’s over at the bookstore enough that his scent is already present in the room, so Aziraphale has yet to detect him on one of these secret entrances. 

It’s slightly creepy. But Crowley has more than enough reasons to justify his behavior. 

Because Aziraphale is so painfully adorable when he tends to the plant. The first time he came in like this, Crowley heard him _singing_ to it. His angel once sat beside it while he drank a cup of tea on his break. 

And now the angel is talking to it, of all things. 

“That Crowley. Charming demon, really. Oh, yes, it’s like a little serpent has gone and wormed its way around my heart,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Silly, I know, but that’s how it is. Don’t tell Crowley, of course!” he hurries to clarify, cheeks pink. “I know you’re technically his, but really, I don’t think either of us could handle such a betrayal.” 

Crowley is unsure if the referred to betrayal involves Aziraphale and the plant, Aziraphale and himself, or Crowley and his plant. His angel is extremely confusing. Or perhaps Crowley’s brain just isn’t working properly because of what Aziraphale just admitted.

He does not have time to unpack all that right now. For the moment Crowley occupies himself with contemplating if he should occasionally be more lenient on his plants, if only so that Aziraphale will say more things like _that_ to the plants Crowley sends.

///

The third and final discomfort is the number of unfortunate insights Crowley has been given into how others perceive his and Aziraphale’s relationship. 

Now, Aziraphale has a bit of a guilt complex about the whole Armagedd-off catastrophe. He still feels that the both of them did Adam a disservice when they accidentally mentored Warlock instead. To make up for that Aziraphale visits the Young household every fortnight, just for a bit of lighthearted small talk.

And to make sure the Antichrist doesn’t go around almost ending the world again, of course. Not that Aziraphale ever reveals that particular bit of information. 

Crowley accompanied his angel exactly once. At the end of the (aggravatingly dull) visit Aziraphale had already been in the Bentley, using Crowley’s phone to talk to a friend about a book shipment. Crowley was promptly cornered by Mrs. Young on his way out the door. 

“He’s a keeper, dear,” the woman beamed. “You two remind me of my husband and I, before we had Adam.” 

Crowley had understood the implications immediately. “We’re not together,” he’d said flatly. “Not like that.”

After that Crowley started finding various excuses to skip his angel’s visits. Once he even said he had a meeting with _Shadwell_. Aziraphale was very disconcerted by that lie, but he seemed to have bought it. 

It’s not that Crowley particularly cares about people assuming they’re romantically involved. He doesn’t. It just always grates at an old wound, because the relationship Crowley and Aziraphale had in heaven is so similar to how humans perceive romantic intimacy.

Maybe they could find their way back to that, if Aziraphale’s earlier confession to the plant in his bookshop is anything to go by. Crowley doesn’t know.

Best not to think about it.

///

_”Crowley.”_

Crowley gets a call in the middle of the night. Angels and demons have no need for sleep, but he finds that he enjoys the occasional doze, which was what Crowley had been doing before the phone rang. 

It’s past midnight. Fearing the worst when he sees Aziraphale’s contact, Crowley answers to his angel desperately gasping out his name. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks, already stumbling off the couch toward his apartment door. “Aziraphale, what in God’s name is the matter?” 

“You need to come to the bookshop.” Aziraphale’s words are shaky and wobbling. 

Crowley frowns in concern. “Why?” he demands. “Did something… happen?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yells, the name filled with desperation. Crowley can’t think of a single time he’s heard Aziraphale so afraid. “Now! Please, _please_.

Aziraphale sounds like he’s… crumbling. Like something cataclysmic happened. Thoughts of Archangels and discorporation and hellfire are spinning in Crowley’s mind, upending his focus and scattering his thoughts in such a way that when he snaps his fingers he lands across the street from the bookshop instead of inside it. 

Crowley practically throws himself across the street to the shop. A car swerves and narrowly misses him, the driver swearing in his direction. Crowley pays them no heed as he flies through the door, bracing himself for the worst. 

There is no sign of struggle. The shop looks to be in perfect order. The only thing wrong with the scene in front of him is Aziraphale, folded in that same tartan armchair with his head in his hands.

“Angel,” Crowley says hoarsely. Aziraphale’s head snaps up. “What happened?” Crowley asks, hating how soft his voice sounds, how weak. 

“I-” Aziraphale bows his head, mouth tightening. He starts again with his eyes cast downward, refusing to look Crowley in the face. “If you must know, I had a dream.” 

“A dream,” Crowley repeats. He can’t help his laugh of disbelief. “My God, Aziraphale! I expected you to be discorporated or dying, not- a dream? What could possibly make you that upset?” 

Aziraphale lifts his head then. There is something unrecognizable in his eyes that gives them a fiery tone. It sets Crowley on edge. “I dreamed of Heaven,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley, feeling slightly aggravated against his will, throws his hands outward. “Come on, angel,” he snaps. “You’ve gotta give me something more than that.”

“Alright!” Aziraphale stands abruptly, stalking toward Crowley. “I dreamed of those brown eyes again. Remember that conversation? Oh, yes, it was decades ago, and I was terribly drunk, but Crowley! Crowley, I remember another particular detail of that unnamed face. Red hair. And I’ve sat here, thinking, trying to avoid what I suspect is the truth. So tell me,” Aziraphale says wildly, blinking hard in what Crowley knows is a way of holding back tears, “What color were your eyes before they became snakelike? Before you Fell?” 

“Angel,” Crowley begins to protest, “I don’t know what exactly you’re implying-” 

“Tell me.” Aziraphale orders, his voice deadly quiet. And for the first time around his angel, Crowley is… wary.

Not afraid, never afraid of his Aziraphale- but that tone is so similar to the ones he heard from the Archangels when he was tried (without a trial) in Aziraphale’s body- passive-aggressive and commanding and so, so cold. 

That voice resembles Michael when she listed his supposed crimes as justification for making him Fall. Horribly, it reminds Crowley that Aziraphale is still very much an angel, even though he is a million times more domestic and undeniably _good_ than the rest of his kind. 

“Brown,” Crowley says helplessly. That single word condemns him. It adds weight to Aziraphale’s shoulders, which slump. “And sometimes gold, but only to the one angel who bothered to look.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes are watery blue. “I loved you in heaven.” He sounds broken. Crowley never meant for this to happen.

“You did,” Crowley admits, his confessions flowing like water now that the damning secret is out. “Before Michael made me Fall. Before the Archangels made you forget me.” 

Aziraphale steps right into his personal space. Crowley lets him. “You knew.” That dangerous tone is back again. “You’ve known, Crowley, all this time! And you didn’t tell me? Didn’t give me the right to remember my own past?” 

“Would you want to know?” Crowley yells despite himself. “Why would I want you to know anyway? That first time we met in Eden you didn’t remember my bloody name, Aziraphale! And then countless times after that I expected you to come around, to suddenly remember or stop pretending or whatever the hell it was.”

“So you blame heaven’s actions on me. For the sake of all holy things, Crowley, I did not remember your existence because they made it so! Until now.” 

“And I was going to tell you,” Crowley says, silently pleading as he grasps the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket. “But countless times over the years I tried saving you at every opportunity, and you denied that we were even _friends_.” He leans down, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s. They are so close. He can see himself reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“I will never blame you,” Crowley croaks. “But you cannot comprehend, angel- I’ve lived with this for centuries. I’ve known you used to love me in a way you never will again. It was easier to try and be content with that than risk losing even this little bit of you I’ve had. And I’m forever grateful it was me instead of you that remembered, but- I was afraid and hopelessly lonely.”

Aziraphale looks stricken, his eyebrows folded and his mouth turned down in an expression of pain. “I loved you,” he says again, sounding dazed. “Did you… did you love me also?” 

Crowley does not hesitate. He thinks offhandedly that nothing will ever terrify him again, after this. “I do. More than I love the stars and earth and everything on it.”

Aziraphale does not look like he believes him. His expression is uncertain, his face closing off to block any emotions from showing on his face as he steps back. 

It gives Crowley the space to strip his jacket off his shoulders and begin unbuttoning his shirt. Aziraphale looks alarmed. Perhaps he is about to say something, but any words between them falter when his angel looks at the feather tattoo on Crowley’s ribcage. 

“You gave me a feather of yours,” Crowley confesses. The words are so quiet they dissolve and crumble in the still air between them. “It burned during the Fall. And after I tried to make my way back to heaven I inked this into my flesh as a promise to never forget.” 

“You’re wrong,” Aziraphale says, calmer now. It ignites Crowley’s anger. 

“HOW?” he screams, throwing his shirt and jacket back on, needing to feel less vulnerable. “That’s what you take away from all this? From me bearing my _soul_ to you?” 

Aziraphale blinks and swallows hard. “You said-” he clears his throat. “You said I loved you in a way I never will again. I think- I struggle to admit it, really, but I can tell you that is decidedly incorrect.” 

Crowley’s heart slams rather aggressively against his chest. “You- you love me.” It’s not a question. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers. Then, more strongly, “My dear Crowley, _yes_.” He moves close again. This time it is not their foreheads touching but their lips. 

Aziraphale grasps his shoulders. Crowley cradles his angel’s face.

Crowley is… he has no words. Here they are, together, physically closer than Crowley ever imagined them being again. 

They break away from the kiss. Aziraphale looks dazed. His cheeks are pink. Crowley wraps his arms around his angel and buries his face in his hair, hugging him as close as possible. 

Here they are: Aziraphale and Crowley, facing eternity together, united on their side. He feels as if he is flying and falling at the same time. 

“To us,” comes Aziraphale’s voice. The words are muffled by his jacket. 

Crowley never wants to let him go. He smiles, even though no one is able to see it. “To us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people wanted to know if this would be continued so I hope this is satisfactory 
> 
> Once again if you want to scream about good omens my tumblr is @monochromatic-starlight

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it and want to leave a comment or kudos that would be much appreciated :)   
> And if you want to scream at me about Good Omens my tumblr is @monochromatic-starlight   
> I would link it but I’m currently posting this on mobile and uhhh it’s a bit rough


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